


Slings and Arrows

by firesign10



Series: Light Remaining verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Deception, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester at Stanford, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently reunited as lovers after Sam's return from Stanford, Sam tells Dean about the events that led to his unjust expulsion, and Dean considers taking action. A timestamp to <a href="http://firesign10.livejournal.com/1358216.html">And Light Remaining After Thunder</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slings and Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Written for the 2015-16 [sammybigbang](http://sammybigbang.livejournal.com). Thanks to [emmatheslayer](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com) for the super-cool banner! Thanks to [theatregirl7299](http://theatregirl7299.livejournal.com) for the terrific beta!

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/90038/90038_original.jpg)

 

Dean lay in bed with Sam snuggled up next to him. They were drowsy and sated, just listening to their heartbeats and the muted sounds from the street. Sam's finger traced along Dean's sternum, his breath soft on Dean's chest.

It was a moment Dean had thought would never happen. The rift between him and Sam upon Sam's departure for Stanford three years ago had been immediate and total. Dean had thrown himself into opening his coffee-house/bake shop _Hallowed Grounds_ , building the business with special roast beans and delectable pastries. His dedication to his fledgling business had only been matched by his denial about the pain of losing Sam.

"I didn't do it," Sam said suddenly. "I want you to know that. I didn't do it."

Dean stretched his neck to turn a little toward his brother. "Didn't do what, baby?"

"Didn't cheat. Didn't copy anything. Didn't  _plagiarize_." The final word dripped bitterness.

Dean scoffed. "Dude, I never thought you did. You don't need to; you're smarter than three-quarters of the world, at least. They were probably copying off you." He kissed Sam's forehead; he could feel the worry-wrinkles beneath his lips.

"Well, you're in the minority. Everyone thought I did it. Brady--my roommate--he stood up for me for a while. Kept telling people I was innocent. But when I had my hearing and I couldn't prove it? He stopped believing in me too. Told me right to my face what a lying, cheating scum I was." He snorted, but Dean heard the catch in his voice. "The funny thing was, he was a cheater. I caught him a couple of times with test answers, told him he better knock it off. Told him I'd help him study so he didn't need to cheat." A small, suspicious sniff followed the last sentence.  
When Dean had picked Sam up at the Lawrence airport a few weeks ago, the pain and grief from being expelled from Stanford had been clearly evident on Sam's face and frame. Dean's resentment had melted at seeing how crushed Sam was, and he'd simply taken Sam in his arms. While there had been conflicts as Sam settled into Dean's apartment above the coffee shop, the brothers had been able to work through them and reach this perfect moment of post-coital cuddling.

Dean lay quietly, holding Sam while he finally told Dean the whole story behind his academic ruin.

Sam clicked “Send” and smiled at the “Email Sent” that popped up on his computer screen. It was his first big paper of his senior semester, and he was very proud of the work he'd put into it. One of his great academic strengths was his capacity for research and his nose for digging out the obscure.

He sighed and shut the lid of his laptop. Time for a celebratory beer with Jess and Brady at the Rathskellar, their favorite local bar. His smile softened as he thought of Jess; her full lips in that sassy smile, her long blonde hair, her large, perky tits...he licked his lips and palmed himself. Time for that after the drinks. Jess was not only beautiful and smart, she was every bit as randy as Sam any night of the week.

He really had it made here, as a Stanford student in California. Challenging, interesting studies, friends, an amazing girlfriend—it was just about perfect.

And if there was a permanent ache in the depths of his heart, an ache that resonated back to Lawrence, Kansas? Well, he refused to acknowledge it. The hell with phantom pain. Life was good.

Sam was cleaning up the dorm room he and Brady shared a couple of days later; tossing Brady's stuff back onto his bed, throwing out accumulated snack wrappers and old papers, unearthing socks and t-shirts. He was sifting through a handful of papers and test booklets, determining what was current and what could safely be tossed, when he found himself staring at a sheet of test answers.

Only it wasn't his sheet. Or Brady's sheet. It was the _answer_ sheet --unmarked, pristine.

He sat on the bed, studying it. They had just taken this test last week, and Brady, who'd generally rather party than study, had pulled off a 97. Sam had been surprised, but praised his roomie for doing so well.

Only now Sam knew why.

Brady walked in and tossed his books onto the bed. “Samster! How you doing? I see it's fall-cleaning time?” He laughed, grabbing a water bottle from their mini fridge. “What's up, dude?”

Sam held out the paper. Brady took it and the smile dropped off his face when he looked at it.

“Cheating, Brady? Why?” Sam shook his head. “I told you I'd help you study. You would have been fine.”

Brady scoffed, “I _was_ fine. Chill, it's no big. It was one lousy test.”

Sam crumpled the paper up and threw it into the trash bag. “Don't do it again, okay? You're better than that. I promise I'll help you.” He stuck his hand out. “Shake on it?”

Brady rolled his eyes, but he shook. “Okay, okay.”

“In general, your papers were...adequate. I realize it's the start of the semester, but people, get your brains in gear.” Professor Devereaux glared at the students. “Next time I will not be so generous.”

He handed out papers to the students as they filed past him before exiting. “Nice job...not bad, Gino, but use spellcheck next time...more research, Alicia...oh, Sam. Could you wait here a second?” Sam stepped aside, wondering what Devereaux wanted with him. Was he that impressed with the paper? Sam fidgeted with a backpack strap while the rest of the papers were distributed to the departing students.

“Okay, come back to my office with me, please. I want to discuss something with you. Do you have time before your next class?” Devereaux's naturally gruff voice gave Sam no clue about the professor's mindset.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I have half an hour.” He followed Devereaux to his office, and took a seat on the wooden chair in front of the desk at a wave from Devereaux's hand.

Devereaux sat down behind his desk and laid a folder on it. Sam could see it was his paper. Devereaux tapped on the folder and asked, “So—what can you tell me about this?”

Sam was puzzled—was he asking about the contents of the paper? How Sam had written it? “I, um...I don't understand what you mean. My research? My conclusions? Did I do the assignment incorrectly?”

Devereaux shook his head. “Not exactly, Sam. While this paper is well-done, what I want to know is why you didn't do your own work on it.”

Sam stared at him in shock. What? It _was_ his own work! Was he really insinuating that Sam had copied it?

He shook his head. “Professor Devereaux, I don't understand. That _is_ my work. All of it. My research, my writing, my thoughts. What makes you think it could be anything else?”

Devereaux tossed another folder onto the desk. “This was turned in yesterday in my other session of this class. Please take a look at it.”

Sam picked the folder up and opened it. The author's name was blacked out. Skimming quickly, he caught his breath in shock. While the writing was a little different--the word choices and sentence structures--the thoughts presented...the thoughts were his.

“I don't...I don't understand. I just wrote my paper this past week...how is this possible?” Sam didn't know what to even think. It was surreal.

“I'm disappointed, Sam. You are bright—no, beyond bright. Intellectually gifted. I can't understand why you would resort to this. This assignment was in no way beyond you.” Devereaux sighed. “I'm not going to report this, but I expect never to see this happen again. And you will not receive a grade for this assignment.”

“But—Professor Devereaux, I did not copy that. I wrote my paper myself. I can show you my notes. All of my files are time-stamped. I can bring my laptop over and--”

“Enough. This matter is closed. We're done here.”

Sam's jaw snapped shut. He could hear the echo of his father's orders in the man's voice, and he shut up. Picking up his backpack, he walked out of the office.

He walked around the campus for an hour, skipping his next class. His mind ran in circles, trying to figure out what had just happened.

There were no answers.

Eventually, the shock of the accusation dulled somewhat as he dealt with the constant flow of reading, tests, study sessions. In between, there was time with Jess, who was completely indignant about Devereaux's suppositions. Sam didn't really discuss it with any of his other friends, or even with Brady; despite knowing he hadn't done anything wrong, Sam felt a little afraid that they would see it some other way, that they would somehow blame him after all. It had taken a couple of years at Stanford just for Sam to not constantly feel that he didn't belong there, and this would be horribly embarrassing.

It was over a month later when he got a paper back from his Lit professor and opened the folder to see a note: “Mr. Winchester, please see me ASAP.” There was no grade.

His stomach clenched in leaden anticipation.

Professor Sue-Ann LeGrange regarded him coldly, her iron demeanor at odds with her crocheted sweaters and softly permed hair. “Mr. Winchester, can you explain why your paper is almost identical to another student's?” she asked in a prim but chilly voice.

“No, I can't. I did all my own research, and I'm happy to turn my notes over to prove it.” While this was as distressing as the time with Devereaux, this time Sam was angry as well. He worked hard, and he deserved the grade for his efforts. He couldn't understand how this could be happening.

“I'm not interested in investigating this, Sam. Suffice it to say that while the paper itself is excellent, I cannot grade it with its credibility in question.” Sam made an involuntary sound of dismay, garnering him a stern look. “There will be a note about it placed in your record.” She handed the folder to Sam. “Now, I have other students to see. Good day.”

Sam found himself outside LaGrange's office, seething with anger and frustration. What the hell was going on? How could this have happened at all, much less a second time? He strode away; ignoring everyone he passed, thoughts circling around and around but with no answers.

Jess caught up with him later, slipping into the diner booth where he'd taken refuge, picking at a buffalo chicken salad while he tried to do some reading but was really just brooding instead.

“What's up, babe? You look like you're pissed at the world.” She wound a graceful arm around his bicep, hugging it and kissing his cheek. Her smile was flirty, but her eyes were serious. “Come on, tell.”

He muttered, “Sue-Ann LeGrange said I copied my paper.” He snorted. “Don't know why it couldn't be that someone copied _me_. No, I have to be the cheater. I don't get that.” He pushed his dish away. “Fucking furious. Why me? Why don't they think I was the one copied from? Why would they think I'd even do that? My GPA from my first two years is high honors. Why on earth would I copy?”

Jess pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don't know. It sure sounds crazy to me.” She snuggled up next to him, wrapping her hands around one of his fists. “It's going to work out, Sam. No one who knows you could ever think you'd cheat.”

Sam looked at their hands. The warmth from her hands eased up to his chest, and he finally relaxed. Jess was right. This would all work out.

They spent the night in Jess's single room, making slow, quiet love; Sam drank in her calm, grounded himself with her body. He slept well, wrapped around her warmth, his own breathing in tune with the rise and fall of hers, and awoke feeling much more optimistic about the situation.

He was less optimistic when he found out Brady had cheated again, having bribed a TA to pass him the answers for another test.

“Come on, Brady! I thought we talked about this. I said I'd be glad to help you study. Why would you risk your degree? Stanford takes Honor Code very seriously. You could be expelled, dude.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't want to study. So I took a little short-cut.” Brady stretched and yawned, lying on his bed unconcerned. Sam felt frustrated—Brady was not stupid, but this seemed like a really stupid choice. “Oh Sam, relax, you are so tightly wound! Chill out!”

Sam decided it was a good time to hit the library.

He had no papers for a few weeks, and he was glad about it, worry still niggling in the back of his brain. With every day that passed, days filled with classes and lectures and Jess, it shrank. When Devereaux finally assigned a new paper, Sam scarcely felt any concern as he worked, carefully preparing his notes and spending hours developing his conclusions. He was pleased and relieved when it was done, joining Brady and a few other friends for beers at the Rathskellar and toasting to a job well done.

His relief evaporated when Devereaux held him after class.

“I'm very disappointed, Sam. I thought I made myself quite clear on this issue last time.” Devereaux's face was grim and his jaw set; Sam thought he would have made an excellent model for a hanging judge.

“Professor Devereaux, I did not copy anyone. If anything, I am the one being copied. This is all my own original writing, and I can't understand why you would say otherwise.” Sam kept his tone respectful, but he spoke firmly, looking Devereaux squarely in the eyes. While he didn't understand what was happening, he wasn't going to just roll over and take it. He'd had a lot of practice standing up for himself in new schools and new foster homes, holding his ground against bullies.

Despite his calm front, Sam felt unease roiling in his belly, cramping low in his guts. It had taken the first two years at Stanford to finally feel that he did in fact deserve to be here; that he was just as good as any one who had grown up in a stable home, who hadn't spent his childhood roaming the country in a truck cab, or then drifted from foster home to foster home. Sam had fought hard to get here, but it hadn't been easy to shake off the feeling of being an interloper once he'd made it.

Now to have his ability—and his integrity—called into question was surreal. It was like his fears and nightmares were coming true; that he'd been found out to be a fraud, unworthy of his place at Stanford. They'd made a mistake accepting him, and now the truth was coming out.

He knew this was irrational thinking, but it was insidious, sapping his inner strength. Sam reminded himself that the unworthiness existed only in his nightmares, a by-product of his unsettled life with no parental support. Sam knew he'd done his own work, and that it was good work. Maybe he wasn't the wholesome all-American product of prep schools and country clubs, but dammit, he'd earned his place here, and earned it honestly.

Devereaux tossed the paper across the desk at him with a dismissive flick of his hand. “I'm done discussing this. The other student in question has been vouched for by the Dean himself. You will receive a failing grade for this assignment, Mr. Winchester, and I will be noting this in your record. If there are any more issues with your work in any class, you will be called before the Dean for an Honor Code hearing.” His face was stern and unfriendly. “Good day.”

“Don't worry about it, Devereaux is a blowhard,” scoffed Brady, picking up a shot glass of amber liquid and dumping it down his throat. “C'mon, Winchester, bottoms up! Ease that pain!”

Sam picked his own shot glass up and drank it, barely tasting the rye as it slid down his throat. “Just so pissed. I've never cheated, _ever._ ”

Brady clapped him on the shoulder. “I know, buddy. Hang in there, you're gonna be fine!” He motioned for another round.

Sam let himself numb the anger with a few more drinks while Brady nattered on about girls and bars and similar nonsense. It wasn't going to hurt to not think for a few hours.

Sam sat in his favorite coffeehouse, the Fresh Cup Bistro, and sipped his caramel macchiato. He tapped at his laptop, clicking on his Gmail account before he started doing any homework research. As the site loaded, he wondered idly how similar this place might be to his brother's bakery...the one he'd never seen. _No need to go there,_ he admonished himself. _You've moved on._

He saw an email from the Stanford Office of Community Standards and opened it, puzzled why they would be contacting him.

Reading it, he felt cold. Then he felt sick.

_Samuel Winchester,_

_You have been charged with multiple violations of the Stanford Honor Code. You must report to a meeting on November 2nd at 2 p.m. with the Judicial Adviser and Judicial Officer as the first step in the judicial process._

_A hearing on these charges has been scheduled for November 15 in the main Administration building, Conference Room D._

_All questions should be addressed to the JA and JO at your meeting._

 

Sam read the email five or six times. It still didn't seem real, yet at the same time, it was sickeningly real. He'd been formally charged with breaking the Honor Code. It was really happening.

He drank some coffee, but it tasted like mud now.

He closed the laptop very gently, as if he were afraid it was going to bite him. But of course, it already had.

“Baby, I know you're telling the truth. I have to think that they will too. It's ludicrous to think you would copy or plagiarize papers.” Jess's tone was firm. “They'll realize that they made a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Brady chimed in. “This is all just crazy talk, and that's what I'm telling anyone who says different.”

Shock shot through Sam. “What do you mean, anyone who says different? Are people...is this out? Are people talking about it?” He thought he might be sick. It wasn't bad enough to just be going through this in the first place—now he had to deal with people thinking he was a cheat?

Jess and Brady exchanged worried looks. “Well, yeah, I'm afraid so, buddy. But we're making sure they know it's not true!” Brady patted him on the shoulder. “Don't you worry, Sam. We got your back.”

Sam dropped his head into his hands. Every passing moment, it just got worse. The Judicial Adviser and Judicial Officer had gone over the charges with him, as well as how the hearing would go. He'd been asked for witnesses in his behalf, which he'd named Jess and Brady as character references, but was unable to produce any other witness as far as the actual charges. They'd taken his laptop as evidence and would return it at the hearing.

He had a dreadful feeling that the hearing would just be a formality.

A squeeze from Jess brought his head back up. “Sam, it's going to be okay. You wait and see—they'll exonerate you at the hearing, and everything will be fine. I promise.”

“Mr. Winchester, we have considered this case carefully, including examining your laptop. Our conclusion, as supported by the files discovered in your laptop, is that you have indeed plagiarized and copied your papers, and therefore are in violation of the Stanford Honor Code. As you are at Stanford University on a full scholarship based on merit and academic excellence, our ruling is expulsion, effective immediately. You have the remainder of this week to vacate your dormitory. This decision will not be appealed.”

“Sam, I can't believe this—we have to appeal, we have to--” Jess's voice was urgent as she paced.

“No appeal, Jess. They won't even convene for it. It's done. Over.” Sam ran an agitated hand through his hair. The hearing had been every bit as horrible and inevitable as he'd dreaded. Four faculty and two staff, all sitting in judgment on him and finding him at fault. Finding him guilty.

“Well, I'm going to call my dad. He's got some great lawyers and we can--”

“ _No._ We can't.” Sam stood up, hating what was about to happen but knowing it had to happen anyway. His hands came up to rest on Jess's arms, and she stilled, her mouth quivering.

“Sam, we--” Her voice broke in a sob, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Jess, it's over. We're...we're over.” Sam had to stop and clear his throat. “I'm not going to have you tarred with this. I'm leaving Stanford, and you—you are going to go on. You're going to get your degree and you are going to go do all the things you've dreamed of.” He studied her face, memorizing it. Two shiny tracks ran down her cheeks, and he swiped at one with his thumb. “I love you, and I'm sorry this...sorry about this whole ugly mess. I'm leaving.”

She shook her head pleadingly. Sam pulled her into him, arms wrapped around her. He could feel her body shaking.

“I'm so sorry, baby. I can't believe this is happening—has happened. Thank you for believing in me. I promise I didn't do it, and knowing that you believe me is about the only thing keeping me going right now.” He kissed her silky hair. “Good-bye, Jess.”

Releasing her, he walked away quickly, refusing to look back. His own tears were wiped roughly as he hurried away.

That evening, Sam sat on his bed in the dorm room, staring blankly. He needed to pack. He needed...fuck, needed to find a place to go. Somewhere to stay. He just...couldn't think. Couldn't function. The meeting with Jess, on top of the stress of the hearing and the last few days, had left him completely drained.

“You still here?” Brady brushed past him. “I thought they told you to get out.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah, but I have until Friday. So...today and tomorrow to pack and find a place.”

“The sooner the better.” The disdain in Brady's voice broke through Sam's fog.

“What?”

Brady leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and regarding at Sam with a sneer. “You know, Winchester, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I tried to be nice. Poor little scholarship boy! But really? I always knew you were scum. You never belonged here, never fit in. I tried to be a good guy, but I'm done with that. You're a liar, you're nothing but fucking trash. Apparently you've been conning us this whole time. Me, Jess, everyone—but now everyone knows what you really are.” He pushed off the desk, kicking one of the partially-packed boxes as he exited. “And they're finally getting rid of you. So fuck off, douchebag.”

Sam sat in utter shock. How many hits could he take before breaking? How had he not known this side of Brady, after all this time as roommates, as friends? They'd studied together, partied together. He'd held Brady so the guy didn't drown in the toilet as he puked. Hell, Brady had introduced him to Jess.

How could Brady turn on him like this?

He tried to take a deep breath, but it took half a dozen attempts.

_You have other problems right now, Sam. Like where the hell are you going to go?_

There was really only one answer. Fighting the tears pricking in his eyes and threatening to clog his throat, Sam picked up his phone and hit the number that, in three years, he'd still never deleted.

“Dean?”

"Showed what a low-life he was. I bet he's some rich kid, can't hardly wipe the snot off his own nose, right? " Dean squeezed Sam's shoulders with the arm he'd draped there. "Fuckin' rich kids are the worst." A thought occurred to him. "Sam, how did they nail you? I mean, I know you didn't do it, so how did they prove that you did?"

"My computer...they found files on it. Files I never put there, Dean. Never."

Dean's mind tumbled Sam's words around. He'd always thought Sam was the smartest person in the world, but Dean--Dean had more street-smarts. "So, Sammy, Brady ever borrow your laptop?"

Sam was silent for a moment. "Sure. His drive corrupted one time, and another time he forgot it at home, had to use mine to do some work before he could go pick his up." He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Dean with big, hazel eyes. "Dean, are you suggesting--"

"That Brady framed you? Well, we know he had opportunity. Not sure what his motive was, but maybe he was just pissed at you for busting him about his cheating. Did he know your password?" Sam was silent. "Sammy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. I was sick one time for a couple of days, and he turned some work in for me. I didn't worry about it because...because I trusted him. I trusted him! Fucker!" Sam lay back down on Dean's chest, and he could feel Sam's jaw muscle clenching. Could see the anger on Sam's face without even looking.

"Shh, baby, I got you." Dean ran a hand back and forth, up and down Sam's shoulders and side. "You decide you want to pursue this, make it right, I'll back you all the way."

Sam shook his head. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe at some point. I'll think about it, but right now? I never want to go back there." His arm came over Dean, hugged him tightly. "I'm happy to be here with you, Dean."

Dean carefully extricated himself from the octopus limbs of his lover. Sam was sleeping deeply, his breathing slow and rhythmic.

Dean had slept for a while, but hearing Sam's story finally had made his gut churn, and his sleep had been light and fitful. What happened to Sam had been horrible, and Dean felt horrible that he hadn't been there for his brother. Sure, Dean had caught him as Sam freefell out of Stanford and Palo Alto, but the damage had already been done. Dean remembered seeing Sam at the airport, tired and forlorn; remembered how Sam had broken down in his arms, finally—as Dean now realized--releasing all of those pent-up emotions.

He poured some iced tea and sat at the kitchen table, thinking the whole sorry mess over. The more he mulled about it, the more he was certain that Brady had planted the files in Sam's laptop. The slime-ball had had time, proximity, the necessary information. Was it just that Sam had caught him cheating? Maybe that along with the short-term benefit of nicking Sam's papers for himself? Dean felt quite sure that it was Brady who both purloined the papers and then brought the charges against Sam.

And then Jess...God, what heartbreak. Even with being ecstatic over being reunited, Dean could feel the pain that had resonated through Sam. And Jess herself—speaking as someone who had never gotten over losing Sam, Dean could empathize with her pain.

Well, there was no fixing things for Jess. Sam had done the best he could by cutting her loose, freeing her up for the rest of her life. She was smart and beautiful—she was bound to meet someone, fall in love again, have a shot at a happy life. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing that.

Brady though...Dean wished there was something he could do about Brady. Even if Sam didn't feel the need, Dean wouldn't mind a little 'come to Jesus' with the man.

“Stop it.” Sam said softly, winding his arms around Dean from behind.

“Stop what?” Dean feigned innocence.

“Stop thinking about how you can have revenge on Brady.” Sam kissed Dean's ear and slid into a chair. He took a sip of Dean's iced tea.

“Not gonna lie, Sammy...I want him to pay for the pain he's caused. For manufacturing the whole mess in the first place.” Dean shook his head. “He deserves it.”

“Yeah, he does. But there's just nothing to be gained, Dean. I'm done with that life.” Sam put one hand over Dean's. “That wasn't my life to begin with. It was borrowed the whole time. The thing I feel the worst about is putting Jess through all of that. But I know she's going to be okay. I know it.” He got up and wandered around the kitchen, straightening a towel, picking a spatula up and putting it back down. “I'm not saying I'm not still mad or upset. I am. But it's not about losing Stanford. Its about the betrayal. That's going to take a while to deal with. But the rest of it?”

Sam stopped next to Dean, cupping his chin as hazel eyes regarding green. “I have you. And that—that's fucking everything, Dean.”

He kissed Dean slowly, lips warm against Dean's. “Now come back to bed, because somehow I'm not sleepy anymore.”

Dean watched Sam saunter down the hall, transfixed by the way Sam's ass swayed. The bedroom door shut.

_What the hell am I sitting here for?_

Dean raced down the hall.

Dean walked up the reception desk of Ilchester Industries. The smooth swoop of the desk echoed the swoosh encircling the double I's of the giant logo on the wall. The stylishly clad young woman behind the desk looked at him with a slight sneer on her crimson lipsticked mouth, but asked politely enough what she could do to help him.

“I need to speak to your junior marketing director.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Her voice implied that she knew he didn't.

“No, but he will see me. Tell him it's Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester's brother.”

“Certainly. Please have a seat over there.” She waved with a bored hand.

“Oh, thanks anyway. I think he'll be right out.” Dean gave her a smile and a wink.

Indeed it was only seconds after she spoke into her headset that Dean heard “Dean Winchester! Well, what do you know!” A good-looking young man walked down the hallway into the reception area. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and his business suit and tie screamed designer label. “Wow! Sam didn't talk that much about you, you know, I almost wondered if he made you up!” The man looked at Dean with a superior smile on his clean-cut features. Brady looked every bit the young successful businessman, with his fresh, clean-shaven face, dark suit, and the charm that was just this side of slimy.

“Nope, not made-up. Sam's told me quite a bit about you, since he's been home. Mostly about his last months.”

Brady tsked. “Yes, that unfortunate matter with the Honor Code. What a shame. Sam's so bright, I couldn't understand why he would resort to—well, never mind. Is he doing okay now, Dean? He had a really bright future, he was looking at law school before that whole ugly mess.” Brady shook his head sadly.

It was all Dean could do to resist smashing his fist into that smug face.

“He's great. He's fantastic. Ten times happier than he ever was at Stanford.” He managed through gritted teeth.

“Aw, that's great! I'm so happy to hear that! Well, thanks for stopping by, Dean, but I've really got to get to a meeting now. Was there a particular reason you stopped by? Or did you just want to see what Sam tried for, but couldn't get?” The smile was replaced by a sneer.

“Sam could have had all of this, if he wanted. And you know it, Brady.” Dean moved quickly into Brady's space, so close that he could see Brady's eyes widen with alarm. Dean stared down into those eyes, pinning Brady with a stare like a hawk hunting a mouse. “You know all about it, don't you, Brady? You knew how smart he was. How decent. And you didn't give a rat's ass about that. Even when he tried to help you do the right thing, you could only see what you wanted.”

“What—I don't know what you mean!” Brady spluttered. His cheeks were very pink now.

Dean leaned forward and whispered in Brady's ear. “You know exactly what I mean. Like about how he didn't turn you in for cheating. About how his papers mysteriously got copied. Sam never said who the other student in question was, but I'm betting it was you, Brady. Right? Get some good grades and screw over your roomie at the same time?”

Brady stepped back. “What—no--”

Dean stepped after him. “Oh yeah, I _know_ it was you. And then you let him get hung out to dry at that hearing, and _then_ you fucking kicked him in the teeth afterward!” Dean's voice dropped to a growl. “You're as low as they get, you fucking scumbag. It's only because I know Sam's moving on that I don't drag your ass out of here and beat the crap out of you!”

Brady's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

The tide of anger was just cresting inside Dean. “Then again, if Sam won't know,” Dean hissed as he grabbed Brady's tie knot and yanked him close, baring his teeth. “Maybe I'll just do it anyway!” He shook Brady hard, both hands at his neck now, practically lifting him to his tiptoes.

“Stop!” squeaked Brady, his self-assurance gone. “I'll call security!”

Dean almost laughed--the threat would have been more effective if Brady weren't now shaking and red, his hair disarranged and his tie now hanging off a rumpled collar. Dean could smell Brady's flop-sweat, and...something more acrid?

Looking down, Dean saw a small, palm-sized wet patch on Brady's crotch. Dean looked back up into Brady's terrified eyes and pushed him away.

“You're a dick and a coward, but it's not up to me to make you pay, Brady. Sam is safe and happy now, so I'm leaving it up to karma to take care of you. And it will, you wait and see. It will. In the meantime, don't you ever try to contact Sam for the rest of your miserable life. If you do, trust me—I'll take karma back into my own hands.”

Dean spun on his heel and walked out of Ilchester Industries before he could change his mind. He smiled to himself at that final picture of Brady wearing his fancy suit marked with pee. He shook himself when he approached the Impala. He felt like he'd faced Sam's demon, even if Sam didn't know, and that they were now free to continue moving forward with their own lives. Together.


End file.
